To the new owners of our family camp:
I believe that places have memories; that
locations are imbued with feelings from the past. Sometimes when you first enter a place, you can feel them in
the air, hear them whispering – a legacy of sorts. The camps at the end of Sheldon Road carry this legacy. Built by my great-great-grandfather,
the red camp sits at the end of the point, a sentinel from the past, guarding
memories – memories you will soon share in.
My great-grandmother spent her summers at the
camp. A teacher for many years,
she spent her vacations here amongst walls papered with her students' artwork –
crayon drawings of the ducks and geese that inhabit the lakeside. My grandparents, Grace and Sheldon,
brought their five children down the dirt road to the camp, and in the late
60s, my grandfather and uncle built the white camp. Since that time, the camps have been the site of many family
gatherings and barbecues at the picnic tables on the porch of the red
camp. Hopefully, your family will
inherit this legacy of joy and communion.
Opening the creaky screen door to the red camp,
the gray planks of the kitchen floor sag a bit with the weight of all this
history. The kitchen window looks
out on the blueberry bushes that surround the property, ripe in summer with
indigo fruit. We would pick
buckets full, often like the little girl in Blueberries For Sal – one
berry plinking into the bucket, and two staining our lips with their bluish
hue.
From
the kitchen of the red camp, comes the living room. As you sit before the stone fireplace in the living room,
see the reflections of ancient fires mirrored in the mica embedded deep in the
quarried stones. The large windows
of the living room always opened to let in the evening breezes and the sultry
scent of the scarlet geraniums growing in the window boxes outside.
Climb the stairs to the second floor, and feel
your feet fall into the grooves carved by all the bare feet that traveled that
same journey. There were never
doors on any of the upstairs bedrooms, just curtains hung across the
thresholds. The view from upstairs
across the waters always took my breath away. And in the master bedroom, countless lids have drooped and
fallen asleep, dreaming to the music of the lapping waters of the lake as they
murmur against the stones at the shore.
One of those stones, just off the porch of the
camp is called the “fishing rock.”
You'll know it when you see it.
It's part of an old stone wharf, now submerged beneath the waters. There's an old tree just to the left of
the rock. The gnarled roots weave
into a stone seat, a place of peaceful respite with a view of the islands. From here, you can see Blueberry,
Doctor's, and Battleship, all nestled like verdant jewels in the azure waves.
At
sunset, the waters turn to flames of golden ripples, but beneath the
sapphire skies of day the still waters steal the souls of the island trees,
holding them captive in their depths.
The twin reflections mirror in the glassy surface of the lake, a lake
whose waters refresh even the hottest summer days.
These camps are truly a place of beauty, and I
hope they bring you and your family as much joy and fellowship as they have
brought mine over the years.
Wishing
you all the best on behalf of my family and this place that we have all loved so much,
Sincerely,
Stephanie
